Torn
by TheSilentPen
Summary: "At the end of the day, will you look yourself in the mirror and be proud?" Rachel is offered the lead in a student film where she needs to go topless. She struggles with her morality and her desire to get ahead. She asks Quinn for advice. Rewrite of 'Naked.' Sequel to Come See About Me. Slight Faberry. AU.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own Glee or any of its characters.

**A/N: **So I heard people liked 'Naked.' I watched the scenes of Quinn and Rachel interaction... didn't like it much. Felt kind of empty, and I didn't like the jabs at Rachel. I wrote this. It's a sequel to **Come See About Me**. You don't have to have read it to get this story, it can stand alone. But here's my version of 'Naked.' Hope you enjoy it.

Let me know what ya think. Please **review** :)

* * *

**Torn**

_TheSilentPen_

* * *

You wish you could tell yourself a simple, easy, white lie.

Just stare at yourself in the mirror, close your eyes, take a deep breath, and open them, and lie.

Part your lips and say:

'_I can **do** this. I can do this scene. It doesn't matter. I love my body._

_ 'I'll **never** regret it.'_

But you can't look yourself in the eyes and say it, you can't say a single, little thing.

Because the girl in the mirror? The one staring back at you with the wide, trusting brown eyes?

You've never been able to lie to her.

You've done this for years when facing tough decisions or insurmountable obstacles. Stood in front of the mirror, looked at your reflection and asked yourself, honestly, if you'd be able to achieve what you wanted to do.

Was it possible?

Were you _able_ to do it?

Somehow, just looking into your own eyes gave you the right sort of sense in things.

You're a terribly honest person, always have been.

But you can lie when it's needed.

You lied to Finn throughout your relationship, after all.

You told him he was a great kisser, even though his lips moved against yours unevenly and you had absolutely no desire whatsoever to crane your neck up to do it again. It really wasn't worth the strain in your neck.

You smiled when he said things that made you want to cry. You hid your tears behind your laughter and your shame deep in your heart, in a heart far too scarred to function efficiently.

And then he dealt you a final blow when he asked _you_ to give up _your_ dreams so that he might have his.

…And you just stood there and let him think he could change your entire life's direction with a flick of his wrist and that crooked (constipated, you now think), boyish smile.

You could lie to save your poisonous relationship.

But you can't lie to yourself.

The offer came after a long, grueling session of dance class with Miss July.

A classmate, Jessica (a film studies major, using intro to dance just to fulfill a requirement to graduate), asked if you wanted to grab a cup of coffee down at the little shop you love down the street.

You cocked your head, furrowed your brow confusedly, and asked why. Jessica had never been on speaking terms with theatre majors.

You've heard her call them 'pretentious pricks' who wouldn't exist without the 'benevolence and charity of directors, screenwriters, and producers.' You've seen her scoff and spit at Brody regularly, and shoot piercing looks of annoyance at you when she thinks you're not looking.

You nod and head to the locker rooms, douse your face in some water, change, and meet her in the hall.

The two of you walked side by side, through the busy streets, scarves tight about your throats, teeth chattering, breath smoking out before you in the cold of the New York winter.

You pulled the door of the coffee shop, motioning for Jessica to head in. She dipped her head to you before walking in and taking her place in line.

By the time the two of you sat down, coffee steaming, Jessica pulled a thick script from her bag and presented it to you.

One hand rested on your cup as you flipped through the pages, looking at the highlighted parts.

It's a student film that Jessica is directing. The concept looked fairly abstract, something you personally wouldn't see, but you supposed those nouveau artsy types would appreciate. Like that weird bit of painting that sold several years ago… 'The Lights Going On and Off,' you thought it was called.

You cocked a brow, lip quirking in half a smile before you looked up, locking eyes with her.

"So what is it that you need from me?" You knew how Jessica played this game. She wouldn't have brought you out here, bought you coffee if she didn't want something. She hated associating with your sort.

"This film," she pointed down at the script, "Is going to be in a VERY prominent film competition in a few weeks. Dozens of critics, agents, all the like will view it. I need a female lead for it."

"And…?" You gestured for more with your hand, flipping down to another page.

"And I was hoping that you'd fill the spot," she struggled with the words. She took a hasty sip of her scalding coffee to wash the request from her tongue, grimacing.

"Me?" You quirked a brow. "And what makes you think I can fulfill such a _huge_ commitment?" Your words were mocking, sarcastic.

"Because you need it, Berry," she said, leaning back in her chair. "And as much as I'd rather go elsewhere for it, none of the upperclassmen will take it seriously, and I can't do the goddamn thing myself. You're the next best thing."

You paused, looking down at the script, then you looked up.

"What's the catch?"

Jessica narrowed her eyes. "What catch?"

"There must be a _reason_ why no one will take this part," you gestured down at the script. "Why?"

She narrowed her eyes, before sighing, running her fingers through her hair. "There's a rather… _artistically_ tasteful… topless scene in it."

Your brows shot up. "_Topless?_ …For how long?"

"A good…" Jessica hesitated before continuing. "The entire film."

"And _why _would I be topless for the _entire_ film?" You crowed, slamming the script down on the table.

"It's making an artistic statement about the beauty of the female form!" the director sputtered, eyes wide.

"I'm not going to participate in something like this," you shook your head. "I _refuse_."

"You'd better rethink that, Berry," Jessica leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table. "This movie will get _major_ attention. Some of the most powerful men in the business are going to view it. Do this scene, and you'll be set.

"Directors will know your name. You'll have somewhere to go after you graduate," she smirked. "Your beloved musical producers will be crawling hand over foot to get to you. No waitressing. No bohemian existence."

"I don't need to get naked to impress anyone," you gritted your jaw, glaring at her.

"I don't know if you've ever heard this before," Jessica whispered, smirking. "But nudity sells. It's just a matter if you want to do it now and reap the benefit… or do it later, and barely get a penny for it."

She slid the script back in front of you. "I'll give you two days to decide, Berry. Two days, then we have to start filming. I suggest you think it over carefully."

With that she straightened scarf about her neck, buttoned her jacket, grabbed her coffee, and left you sitting there.

You arrived home dazed, plopped down on the couch, and stared off into the blank expanse of your loft.

And as much as you wanted to restate what you'd told Jessica… as much as you wanted to throw that script in her smug face and tell her to get the hell out of the way, and that she could keep her goddamned coffee…

You couldn't.

Because, you thought to yourself, this is a _real_ chance. A real chance to do something you've wanted to do for so long. Well, to get there. Skipping the suffering in between, skipping cold New York winters in a drafty apartment huddled near a heater, struggling financially between auditions.

This is getting ahead.

And as much as you hate Jessica, you knew she was right.

So the script sat in front of you on the coffee table for a good hour, staring up at you, with its fancy cover art and gaudy pink paper.

It sat there till Kurt came back from work, mumbling grouchily about the new flurry of snow, shaking his coat out and mumbling about how Marc Jacobs is _not_ suited for New York winters.

He found you sitting there, saw the blank stare on your face, and walked over. He put his hand on your shoulder and asked you what'd gone wrong. Why you looked like someone had taken your Tony.

All you can do is look up at him and say—

"Can we talk?"

So he went over to the stove, and comes back several minutes later with two cups of chamomile tea, steaming. He handed you one cup, and asked you to spill.

And you told him everything. About Jessica, about her offer, about the topless scene.

You told him about your morals, how you feel that you don't think you can do this, how it makes you feel uncomfortable… cheap.

But you told him you think it could get you ahead. That you're not sure whether or not to take this opportunity.

And Kurt sat there, nodding his head, asking questions here and there. He sat there, not passing judgment, but _listening_.

At the end of it all, he bit his lip then began to speak.

"I think it's a great opportunity," he said, before holding up a finger as you opened your mouth. "Shh, let me speak, Rachel.

"I think it's a good opportunity. You _could_ get ahead. And Jessica's right… there might be a role where you might have to be topless in the future," he chose his next words carefully, chewing his tongue. "Broadway does topless scenes… in a more… tasteful manner than she's suggesting, but they do. Lea Michele did a topless scene in Spring Awakening. She got a Tony.

"But if you don't want to do it," he put a hand on your leg, rubbing it gently. "If it will _truly_ make you _that_ uncomfortable, then you don't have to do it. No one would judge you.

"That's what's wonderful about a role," Kurt smiled. "You don't have to take it. And no one will think any more or less of you for it. This is _your _decision.

He leaned forward, kissing your forehead softly. "And you know that no matter what you do, I'm going to support you, Rachel. I know it seems hard now… but you'll look back, no matter what decision you make, and you'll feel proud for having made it."

He sat up, stretching, grabbing his cup from the table. "I'm going to go pack my stuff up. Adam's having a rehearsal tonight."

He paused for a moment before looking over his shoulder. "And if you need help… I'm sure Quinn would lend an ear to you as well. Why don't you give her a call?"

He smiled, before turning to disappear into his room.

You sat there, before pulling your phone from your pocket, dialing a number _so_ familiar, it made your heart ache, and holding it to your ear.

_"Rachel? What's wrong?" _She answered on the _first_ ring.

"Hey… I need some advice," you swallowed, closing your eyes. "…Can you come over tomorrow?"

She's silent for a moment, before answering.

"_Of course."_

* * *

And that's how you ended up here, staring at yourself in the mirror, staring at yourself, searching for some sort of answer.

You _couldn't_ sleep last night. You tossed and turned and stared up at the ceiling, thoughts racing through your mind.

Jessica's words haunt you.

This decision feels like a ton of bricks (you snort at the cliché, running your hands over your face). Like it could change _everything_ and nothing at the same time. It feels like the sky is falling, and you're Atlas, trying to shoulder the weight of it.

The anxiety simmers and bubbles in your stomach, you grind your teeth.

You agonize over it till there's a knock at the door, the sound of Kurt and Quinn's voices mixing outside your door, and the tentative squeak of your door opening as someone takes a step in.

You turn your head, and you see Quinn, standing there with a gentle smile on her face.

She looks… different, you realize.

The last time you'd seen her, only a few weeks ago at Thanksgiving, she'd looked like the old Quinn Fabray. Gold hair long, sun dresses and a cardigan, with those ballet flats she used to wear when she was pregnant.

She'd looked at you with hard, melancholy hazel eyes, angry and saddened. She'd looked at you like you'd betrayed her. She'd resisted and hit at you, all the while _screaming_ for help inside.

And you'd given it to her. You'd begged her to change, begged her to start over again. Take the opportunity and _learn_ to be who she'd been made to be.

Those eyes had lightened with something indecipherable before they turned a stunning shade of the lightest green and there'd been… something there, just for a brief second. She'd been so close she'd almost… _kissed_ you.

But it'd been lost, and she'd turned away and come home with you. You'd eaten dinner with her, spent the rest of break with her, then shook hands and went your separate ways (though you'd started to exchange e-mails on a regular basis, and had been talking about visiting each other).

This Quinn has those same, happy eyes, with little flecks of aged amber. But her hair is shorter, jaggedly cut to the length from the end of Junior year.

This Quinn wears dark washed jeans tight against athletic thighs. A periwinkle, long sleeved thermal with the sleeves pushed up to her shoulders, the top two buttons undone to reveal a generous expanse of alabaster skin highlights curves usually hidden beneath flowing sundresses. Tan thigh high riding boots covered in New York's slush guard her feet. A silver cross kisses her clavicles as it shifts with her.

Quinn looks _happy_… but worried, as she stares down at you, brow furrowed.

You smile weakly. "Hey you."

"Hey," she smiles. She strides forward. "You look tired… what's wrong?"

"Get right down to business, don't you?" you chuckle. You pat the bed beside you. "Sit down, get yourself comfortable before we talk about serious stuff."

"'Serious stuff?'" She air quotes, shaking her head with a laugh, sitting down beside you. "Using some SAT vocabulary there, aren't we, Rachel?"

"Every. Day," you deadpan. "You know, I _strive_ to be grammatically correct."

"Well you certainly did in high school," she smirks. "I can't remember how many times I wanted to get a dictionary out when you spoke. There were probably _five_ SAT words in EVERY one of your sentences."

"Don't bring up high school," you whine, "that isn't _fair._"

"All's fair in love and war," she grins.

"What is this?" you ask softly. "Love or war?"

She pauses, shoulders stiff, before she shakes it off.

"Well, we've always had a _war_ going, Rach," Quinn says softly, grin gentling.

You return it, before lifting your hand to touch the jagged ends of her new haircut. "You got it cut."

Her eyes flutter. "When you're an Ivy student, you don't really have time to take care of your hair as much anymore. You spend most of it studying. I missed how low maintenance it was."

But you know that Quinn cutting off her hair means _something_. It means change. After she cut it the first time, she gentled, turned over a new leaf. This time is no different.

But you don't say anything. This really isn't about Quinn right now.

Instead, you lower your hand, then look back at the mirror, staring hard at yourself.

This is about you, and your stupid indecisiveness.

"You wanna tell me what's going on?" she asks it softly, like you could be spooked.

You sigh. "I got offered a lead in a student film."

"That's great!" her voice is enthusiastic, before she quiets. "…But you don't want to do it?"

"It's got a topless scene," you say. "One whole hour of nudity."

Quinn freezes, and you can see how wide eyed she is. "Oh." Her jaw works soundlessly before she clears her throat, trying to say something.

She works up enough of her voice several moments later. "And you're thinking of this?"

You know you can hear the surprise in her voice. Because the old Rachel wouldn't even _think_ about doing a topless scene. It would be 'wildly inappropriate,' complete with a diva storm out.

But you're not _that_ Rachel anymore, and Quinn doesn't know that.

"The film is going to be in a competition," you begin. "A bunch of well known directors, producers, and agents are judging it. It's a chance for me to get ahead.

"I'll have someplace to go after graduation. No struggling," you close your eyes. "I'll be able to make it. I won't have to wonder if I will."

"But you're _going_ to make it either way," Quinn says, as though it's obvious.

You turn your head, lock eyes with her as she continues. "You really don't know how splendid you are, do you?

"You've always been able to capture and hold attention. You've always been true to yourself, and you've never had to compromise yourself to do it, Rach," Quinn smiles. "You're the most… stubborn, determined, obsessive, wonderful, _beautiful_ and _talented_ person I know."

"But there are people out there that are better than me," you argue. "They're prettier… they've got more of a voice than me. What if this is my _only_ chance?"

"There might be people who can sing better than you, Rachel," Quinn places a hand on your shoulder. "But they're not true to themselves. They don't have your drive, they give up when people shove them down.

"And you're _beautiful, _Rachel," Quinn smiles, "you're gorgeous, and you've always been _so_ comfortable about yourself."

"Even with the nose debacle?" you snort.

"_Especially _during the nose debacle," she chuckles. "I've tried for _years_ to be comfortable with myself… and… I finally am. But you… you've always been comfortable with yourself. I'm so envious of that."

She puts her arm around your shoulder, squeezing you gently. "If you want to do this… then I'll support you. But I want you to do it without looking back and regretting it. I want you to be able to _look_ in that mirror weeks or _years_ from now and not regret it."

Quinn points to the mirror. "Look at her and see if you can say you wouldn't regret it. If you can do it, at the end of the day—Just look at yourself, and say you're proud of yourself, then that's all you need. Kurt and I will support you the entire way.

"It's _your_ decision, Rachel."

So you look at Rachel. You look at her, with her bloodshot eyes, and trusting face and open your lips, and you try to say it.

"I…" _I won't regret this_.

"I won't…" _Regret this. **Say it**._

You try. You struggle to.

But the Rachel in the mirror stops you every time. You know you can't do it.

"I won't do it," those words make it to your lips.

Instantly, you feel Quinn's arm tighten around you as the tears fall from your eyes. You feel the other join to link around you as she smiles into the crown of your head, pressing a kiss there.

"I'm proud of you, Rachel," she says softly. "I'm so proud of you."

For the first time in weeks, you feel a lightness in your heart that you haven't felt in a while. It feels good, this being honest with yourself again. You haven't done it in so long, since before Finn.

And being there with Quinn, _in_ Quinn's arms makes you feel safe, warm and protected in ways that Finn _never_ had.

That emptiness that's been filling up since Thanksgiving feels a little fuller. It feels warm, and sits there in your heart like a warm ember giving off waves of comfort.

It's strange, you know. How comfortable you feel in the arms of Quinn Fabray, someone you've always had some sort of inexplicable connection to. The only person who's understood you for so long.

She's tormented you, cried to you, slapped you.

And you've understood it all.

And you've never turned away.

But _why_?

_Why?_ You ask yourself as your tears still and you shiver while Quinn draws shapes across your back.

_Why_ did you forgive her? _Why_ is there this… magnetism?

You can't answer that question now, you've already answered one too many today.

Especially as your mind hazes again when Quinn's cheek grazes yours, your eyes locking as her eyes dart down to your lips, before locking with browns again.

Her fingers play gently across your cheek, your breath hitching as she comes closer.

A gentle kiss is placed against your cheek and you tremble softly as she pulls back, smiling faintly.

"Do you want to go out and get something to eat?" she asks softly. "I'd like to experience some fine New York cuisine."

The spell is broken as you laugh. "How about some fine, take out Chinese? I've got a great place around the corner."

"Chinese, how exotic," Quinn drawls.

"Yes, the epitome of being a cultured American," you smirk. "White chinese. Whinese food. Get your coat on, I'll get dressed."

"Yes, oh friend of mine," Quinn does a theatrical bow before turning out the door.

You shake your head, before throwing on some jeans, a turtleneck, and a pair of faux-leather boots.

You pull your arms through your coat, loop a scarf around your neck.

You stop at the mirror, see the smile on your lips, and the light in your eyes. You close lids over mud brown irises for a moment, and remember Quinn's hands on your face, the warmth of her fingers playing across your back, and the comfort of her embrace.

There'd been that moment again… that moment of something maybe more. You know Quinn felt it too. That she'd almost _kissed_ you.

But she'd known how fragile you were. Knew she couldn't take advantage.

She'd thrown the ball into your court.

She was waiting.

And you'd have to think about it for a while. Explore this friendship a bit more. Get to know _this_ Quinn.

'_Maybe,' _you walk to the door, smile at Quinn as she stands talking to Kurt at the door.

'_Maybe this'll be something someday.'_

Whatever it is, you have time.

…You have time, and you'll use it.

You smile at her as she looks at you, hazel eyes bright and pearly white teeth glinting.

Yes, this will be something someday.

* * *

**A/N: **What'd you think? Let me know, please? :)

...By the way, wanna follow me, I'm on Tumblr, link on my profile :) Thanks.


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